


Relapse

by ACometAppears



Series: Who The Hell Is Bucky? [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Post Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, body image issues, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky are coming to terms with their feelings for one another. However, Bucky has a tough time sticking to the civillian lifestyle - he starts to lose time, and regresses to being the Winter Soldier, for short periods of time. Steve is worried about him, and asks Natasha for help: she suggests that Bucky put his repressed emotions and skill to good use. </p><p>Sixth and final part of the 'Who The Hell Is Bucky?' series (but also readable as a stand-alone fic).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be the final part of the series, and will have two chapters. Thanks SO much for all your support!! You've all been ace. Watch out for the usual language, violence, etc.

The first clue that something was wrong with Bucky came when Steve woke up to him leaning over him, staring down at him with a cool, calculated gaze. His eyes were narrowed, and his face had been blank, as he’d stared down at Steve’s sleeping form; he hadn’t moved, when Steve roused, and startled, not expecting Bucky’s nose to be that close to his face. 

He’d gently reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear – but he’d gotten no response. Bucky had just stared, looking confused and wary.  
“Bucky?” 

Finally, Bucky had turned over, and gone back to sleep; though puzzled, Steve was tired. If Bucky was going to sleep, then so was he – but it didn’t mean the situation left his mind; that stare lingered on into his dreams. The lack of receptiveness to his touch refused to fade, even when dawn broke and he got up for his morning run. 

He’d woken up that morning worried that something was wrong – but when Bucky groaned and gripped him tight with his right arm (the left always remained slumped behind his back, he insisted it was more comfortable there), burrowing deeper into his side, Steve knew that Bucky was okay. 

It had just been a hiccup – if it had happened, at all. Bucky said he didn’t remember. 

So he went about his daily business for the next few days, and forgot about the incident – he and Bucky worked out, he went to the shops, Bucky cooked a couple of the dinners he’d learnt to make (the guy sure can tenderise steaks); Steve organised a meet-up with the Avengers, as a part of an initiative to give back to the city after what happened to New York during their fight with the Chitauri. Fury thought it was best that they all pledged to help out the NYPD a few times a month, as penance for all the destruction they’d caused, and to sway public opinion well and truly in their favour – sure, Fury’s playing dead now, but that doesn’t mean Steve won’t fulfil his duty to the city. Natasha needs to, as well, following her court appearance after Project Insight tanked. She wasn’t convicted of anything – but she still needs to rehabilitate her image. As does Clint, after his stint with Loki. 

Sam comes along, sometimes, just to get some use out of his newly-repaired wing pack. 

But when Steve gets back from helping out a few nights later, and sets his shield down on the kitchen counter, he’s startled by Bucky sitting there – shrouded in shadow and very much awake, he stares Steve down from the darkness, his shining eyes the only part of him not cloaked in darkness. He is utterly still . . . There is a gun, on the counter, in front of him. In arm’s reach, but set to one side. Steve stares, open mouthed, wondering what to say. All he can manage, just like those few nights ago, is, “Bucky?” 

Bucky’s eyes track his movement – they're the only moving part of his body, gazing at Steve like they can see right through him; his gaze is predatory, and for the first time in a long time, something in the back of Steve’s mind screams, _threat_. He isn’t sure what to do, so continues to stare, silently, for a moment more. 

But it isn’t Bucky who stares back. He knows that, now. He curses himself inwardly, as the words come reluctantly out of his mouth:  
“. . . Stand down, soldier,” 

The tone of voice he uses is quieter than usual, but conveys just enough authority that he’s sure that any self-respecting serviceman would know that it's a serious command. He only hopes his gamble will pay off – it had seemed like the logical, if not the most _comfortable_ thing for him to do. 

Bucky blinks, shifting in his seat, and looking down at where his metal hand lies beside the gun on the table in front of him. For a horrible moment, he thinks he’s at Pierce’s house – but it’s not Alexander Pierce who emerges from the darkness, mocking him and giving him commands, but-

“Steve? . . . When did you get here?” He asks, rubbing his eyes with his right hand, and withdrawing his left from the weapon; dropping it into his lap, where it can’t do any damage. He’d just been waiting up for Steve, he hadn’t been able to sleep . . . He looks at the gun in confusion, then at Steve’s face, which is, regrettably, wary and upset, “Where did that come from . . .?”

Bucky doesn’t even remember retrieving the weapon; he can’t even be sure he hadn’t gone out and used it. He doesn’t remember Steve coming in, and he doesn’t remember turning back into the Winter Soldier while he waited for him to return. 

That’s when Steve knows there’s a problem. 

It’s not him, but Natasha, that comes up with the solution – of course, it’s phrased as a suggestion, but Steve sees through her words, and sees the experience-based knowledge that underlies them. 

“Does he seem tense?” She asks, studying Steve’s face carefully.  
“. . . Yeah, I – I think so,” Steve replies. “Definitely when he’s like _that_ , but other times, too. He gets – I don’t know. He works out all day long, and trains,”  
“That’s what I thought,” Natasha mutters to herself, shaking her head and adjusting her bracelets. 

They’re on their way back from another night of patrolling the streets. There’s never really any serious trouble on patrol – hell, half the people they come across are drunk, and want a picture with Captain America – but when they go on raids, it’s a different story. A few times there have been some real fire-fights: drugs busts, raids on buildings linked to organised crime, places suspected of being part of human trafficking rings . . . Yeah, those nights Steve really feels like he’s doing some serious good for the city. The cops do a great job, but sometimes they’re completely out-manned and out-gunned when it comes to the truly vicious criminal types that inhabit some of the shadier corners of the city. 

So he, Natasha, Clint and Sam are happy to step in. 

But, tonight, it had just been a patrol – and it had just been the two of them. So he’d thought he’d share his troubles with Natasha. 

“What do you mean?” He asks frowning.  
“He’s got some pent up . . . Stuff, going on. Believe me, I know. They used to make it worse – drugs, torture . . . They would amp up the aggression. I’ve seen it happen,” She explains, trying not to convey the true horrors she’s recalling in her mind’s eye; not to let him know that something like what's happening to Bucky happened to her, at times, too.  
“And you think Bucky . . . ?” Steve asks. She looks up at him, and sees that he’s horrified, for his friend. She hates to see him like this.  
“I can’t be sure. We were both weapons, once – to be used,” She explains, trying to keep a softer tone of voice. “And aggression used to help that – but all that anger becomes a problem, now, because we’re not just weapons anymore,”  
“Bucky thinks he is,” Steve tells her, looking at the floor. His face is grim, as he remembers having to calmly explain what had happened to Bucky. 

Bucky had been ashamed; he’d been angry enough to turn away, and punch the wall. His eyes had leaked tears that he’d tried to brush away before Steve saw them – but the effort was futile. His eyes had been red, and his breath had come short, as he’d come to terms with losing time like that. 

As he’d come to terms with becoming the Winter Soldier again, even for half an hour or so. 

“. . . Steve . . . How do you know he won’t go out tonight, while you’re not there?” Natasha asks cautiously, frowning up at her friend. Steve’s face grows even bleaker. 

_You have to take it away_ , Bucky had said. _I can’t do any serious damage without it – or, or it would be harder for me to – I don’t want to hurt anyone, Steve-_

“. . . Because he made me lock his arm away,” He tells her, his face solemn and ashamed.  
“Oh,” She replies dumbly, unable to think of anything that will make him feel better; ease the suffering that he’s clearly inflicting upon himself. Steve nods. They walk together in silence for a moment more, before Natasha has an idea. 

“It’ll wear off, eventually – the conditioning will have less of an effect, and he’ll stop getting like that,” She tells Steve, who nods, but doesn’t say he believes her. “But, until then . . . Well, I think I know something that would stop the episodes,” She tells him, choosing her words carefully.  
Steve’s face lightens up, and he looks rapt; he pauses, stopping where he’s walking. She stops, too.  
“What is it?” He asks, sounding urgent. She bites her lip for a moment, and steels herself.  
“When I was having trouble – _adapting_ , I realised the real solution wasn’t to try and change – it was to play to my strengths. I couldn’t just be an average American – I worked for SHIELD, and I used my skills set. It wore away at the conditioning, and the reds up here-” She taps her fingers to her temple, “. . . I really needed my work. I needed to feel useful, and I needed to let my anger at what had happened to me out,” 

Steve nods, thinking that he knows where this is going. 

“I think James . . . _Bucky_ would do better out here, with us, rather than cooped up,”  
“I don’t keep him cooped up,” Steve says, slightly defensively.  
“I know you don’t – but maybe his skills would be better used out here. He could get rid of some of that rage, and you’d have him back,”  
“. . . Bucky was always kinda scrappy,” Steve concedes. He’s never seen Bucky go so long without getting into a fight, before – not during their childhood, not during the war, and definitely not when he came back.  
“Maybe the reason he keeps regressing to being the Winter Soldier is cause he’s letting that crap build up inside of him,” Natasha suggests. Steve nods, and they continue walking again; he mulls it over in his mind as they go, and continue talking.  
“So you think he should fight alongside us?” Steve asks.  
“Well, it would be the best way for you to keep an eye on him,” Natasha points out.  
“Huh. I guess, if he keeps . . . _Regressing_ , anyway . . . ”  
“– better he do it with us there,” Natasha finishes. “. . . As it is – well, I’m not sure you’re entirely safe right now, Steve. I mean – you said you were sleeping when it first happened? . . . What if he attacks you?”  
“He wouldn’t,” Steve dismisses, trying to keep his voice light.  
“But if he-”  
“I said he wouldn’t,” Steve interrupts, looking her in the eye, with a hint more warning in his voice than before. She purses her lips, but nods. “He saved my life. He wouldn’t hurt me on purpose,” Steve continues.  
“But if it’s not _him_ , he won’t get a choice,” She asserts. Steve huffs out a sigh, but concedes the point. “Look – talk to him about it. I know the others might not feel . . . _Comfortable_ , fighting alongside him, but I’d be fine, and you would . . . Just bring it up with him. Talk him round,” She says with a hand on his arm, before they part ways for the night. 

-

When Steve arrives home, Bucky is sitting on the couch, watching television: he stares at it with borderline contempt. He’s channel surfing, pausing on advert after advert with picture-perfect men and women laughing and joking and smiling; using products that they claim have changed their lives, and trying to convince him that there’s nothing to worry about. 

But every time he sees them, _smiling and laughing and perfect_ , he becomes acutely aware of the lightness on one side of his body; of the mangled stump where his arm used to be, and the scars and lacerations all down the left side of his body, that make him so much less than them. And that’s without even considering his actions. 

Just his body is enough to make anyone sick. 

Steve comes in and sees him slumped there, eyeing the screen like it’s going to jump out and attack him at any moment; without his metal arm, he seems so much smaller. He isn’t wearing a shirt, because he doesn’t like the empty sleeve left there when he doesn’t have his arm attached. Steve purses his lips, steeling himself for a moment; remaining unseen for just a second more, to observe Bucky when he thinks no one can see him. 

“Hey, Buck,” He calls. Bucky masks his flinch quite well – but not well enough for Steve not to catch it. “You know, most people are asleep at 3 a.m.,”  
“Well, guess I’m not most people, then,” Bucky says, grinning up at Steve with mirth he doesn’t actually feel. “And neither are you. What time do you call this?” 

Steve grins, and shakes his head, looking down at the floor for a moment. When he looks up, Bucky’s smirking at his own joke, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes; his right hand reaches across his body, and rubs at his left set of ribs. Steve can tell he acutely feels the absence of the metal limb, when Steve’s looking at him. He looks down at the floor, avoiding eye contact despite their supposedly cheerful conversation; he looks ashamed. 

_He thinks I’ll be disgusted_ , Steve thinks, trying not to falter with the realisation. _He thinks I won’t – thinks I won’t love him anymore._

The thought comes out of nowhere – the _love_ part, anyway – and catches him off guard. He doesn’t realise he’s been staring at Bucky for a moment, until his old friend says,  
“It’s rude to stare, ya know – I mean, I know I’m handsome, but . . .”  
“Sorry, Buck – just a little tired,” He gives a quick laugh, and scratches the back of his head nervously, trying to cast the revelation out of his mind. _Yeah, I always loved Bucky – but – but what if I kinda - I think I kinda . . ._ Love _Bucky? We sleep in the same bed – he’s always so clingy, always wants me there, can’t sleep without me, he laughs at my corny jokes, he’s got my back, he looks at me like I’m – like he’s-_

 _But right now, Bucky is afraid of being . . ._ unattractive _to me – which is stupid, cause there’s no way that would ever put me off – there’s no way he could ever be . . . Yeah, no. He’s stupid if he thinks that._

“. . . You want me to help you with your arm before we go to bed? Or are you fine leaving it-”  
“Yeah – yeah, that’d be swell,” Bucky interrupts, clearly eager for Steve to retrieve the limb, which he’s only had for a few days: it’s brand new, its design having been altered to include all Tony Stark’s adaptations, which have improved his life in many ways, both big and small, every day he’s had it so far. 

Steve nods, and beckons for Bucky to follow him. As always, Bucky does. 

Even walking is harder without the limb attached: he’s lost his balance, more than once, in the time Steve has been gone. But he couldn’t be trusted to be home alone with it on – the consequences of him losing time again, and going out and hurting someone, are too awful to think about. _If you turn back into that, then that’s it – it’s proof that that’s all you’ll ever be. Proof that you’re a machine, dressed up as a man. Proof that you’re a weapon, who’s playing at being human._

Steve leads Bucky to his bedroom safe, which of _course_ is hidden behind his huge framed American flag. He uses the retinal scanner to open it up, and gently – with a reverence that makes Bucky’s heart ache and throb, fit to burst – he takes the arm out of the safe. 

“You wanna sit down?” Steve asks. Bucky nods, and follows Steve to their bed. He licks his lips as he watches Steve manipulate the limb until it’s the correct way around; then, he holds it up awkwardly, waiting for Bucky to do most of the work (like he usually does). He can reattach the prosthesis by himself, by now – but it’s always nicer for Steve to be there with him. Even if he feels like Steve’s disgusted by him . . . At least he hasn’t run away. _Yet_. 

“Don’t you dare say _on your left_ or I will kick your ass,” Bucky mutters, trying to put Steve at ease, as he hefts the limb into place. Steve huffs out a laugh, which fades away quickly. He watches Bucky work: a sense of grim purpose settles over his face, as he adjusts it until it’s in _exactly_ the right position. It’s moulded to him, so there’s no problem with rubbing or soreness – Stark’s upgrades mean it’s lighter, too, but not too light: it’s as heavy as his other arm, and still strong enough to cause serious damage. _And protect Steve_. 

Once it’s attached properly, he flexes his fingers, the usual whirrs and clicks that accompany any movement making them both feel a little better.  
“Nat was asking after you today,” Steve says softly. Bucky looks up, his eyebrows raised, as he processes that information.  
“Natalia? . . . What did she say?”  
“Natasha,” Steve corrects blithely, “We got to talking about . . . Your recent, um . . .”

Bucky looks down sharply. Steve bites his lip, afraid he’s offended his old friend. He puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  
“She’s a friend, Buck,” He assures him. Bucky nods once. “She had a suggestion,”  
Bucky snorts slightly, “Did it involve a freezer?”  
“God, no! No – no, she didn’t-” Steve begins, horrified. But when Bucky looks up, a forced smile on his face, he knows it was a dark attempt at humour. “Oh . . . No, no – she thinks that, maybe – well, she said it might be a build-up of aggression, that causes you to, uh-”  
“Relapse?” 

Steve nods. _That’s probably a better way of putting it._

“Well I already kick the shit outta the punching bag every day . . .” Bucky points out.  
“Yeah, but – well, maybe if you felt like you were actually doing some good-” Steve trails off, as Bucky looks at him, a puzzled expression on his face.  
“What are you trying to say . . .?”  
“Nat thinks it’s a good idea for you to come with us – on a raid, soon,” 

Bucky gulps. He looks down at the floor; his eyes catch the metal of his arm, and he’s reminded of all the damage he’s done with that arm; all the lives he’s choked out of people, all the times he’s thrown them from moving vehicles, all the bones he’s outright crushed with it . . . He’s no Avenger, and he’s definitely no hero. 

“You can’t trust me, Steve,” Bucky tells him, in a small voice. “I can’t come with you, cause I can’t be trusted out there,”  
“But I do trust you, Buck – I trust you with my life!” Steve protests, his hand tightening on his shoulder. Bucky frowns.  
“You shouldn’t – I can’t even control myself, I’m dangerous-” His speech is coming quicker, and his breathing is becoming more erratic; he feels a phantom Alexander Pierce slap him across the face as the sensation grows and he starts to panic; he snaps his head away from Steve’s caring gaze, _too much, too much-_ “– I’ll relapse, and – and I’ll hurt people, and-”  
“Bucky, listen to me,” Steve tells him, bringing up his other hand to tilt Bucky’s chin towards him. In his eyes, Steve can see tears he _still_ doesn’t quite know how to shed naturally. They always gather there, but they never fall – they just linger there as if he’s afraid to let them go. 

“I would never, _ever_ let you lose control like that. You hear me? – I’m not a kid you have to defend anymore – I beat you before, right?” 

Bucky gulps, and nods; finally, one tear slips down his cheek. He brings his hand up quick as a flash to wipe it away, as if trying to stop Steve from seeing it; they both know it’s too late.  
“Before you stopped fighting me – yeah,” Bucky recalls.  
“I don’t wanna have to do it again, but . . . But if you needed it – if you ever got so bad I couldn’t talk you around, you know I’d stop you, right?”  
“. . . Right,” 

He doesn’t mean _kill_. They both know Steve would never have the heart to kill him. 

“. . . Okay, so I – _theoretically_ , I could – I could go with you guys, I could help, but – but I tried to kill you, Steve. And her – and Sam – and I know I’ve seen her now, and she’s fine, and you’re fine, but . . . There’s no way I’m good enough to fight with you, and her, and Sam – I’m not worthy,” Bucky’s voice is tiny, by the end of the worried, slightly panicked sentence. 

He reaches up to rub at his eyes, and curses himself; his metal hand clenches up with the frustration he’s feeling.  
“Hey – hey, that’s not true at all,” Steve tells him, and his voice is a sincere whisper at this point. He removes his hand from Bucky’s shoulder, and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. Bucky wears it up, most days, now – but without his other arm for the night, there’s plenty of loose hair that he didn’t manage to get into a ponytail, or that messy bun he usually goes for. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as Steve’s fingers slide down his face. He takes a deep breath, and just listens, as Steve quietly tells him: "These problems you’re having – with yourself, with the idea of being out there with us . . . It’s fear. All of this rage, and self-hatred, and pent-up tension – it’s fear. Not of getting hurt, or even me getting hurt – it’s fear of yourself,” 

Bucky’s eyes open, and he looks at Steve. His face is slightly pink – and for the millionth time, Steve thinks about how weird it is to watch Bucky cry, but not to see him shed more than one tear, though he clearly would if he were able. _Maybe one day_. 

“But – but after everything I’ve done-” Bucky tries to make excuses, but Steve interrupts,  
“It wasn’t your fault, Buck – you didn’t want to do it, but it’s part of your past now. That doesn’t mean you should let it ruin your future . . . You can make up for it, if you feel you need to,”  
“Really?” 

Bucky’s voice is barely a whisper, as he looks into Steve’s eyes: he’s got complete faith in his old friend, who grips the back of his neck supportively; he can’t get enough of that touch – not wanting anything, not hurting him, just . . . Affectionate. Caring – _loving_. 

“Really,” Steve confirms. They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment more, as Bucky’s breathing evens out. The possibility of a full-blown panic attack is passing, thankfully. Steve doesn’t know how much more of seeing Bucky in such obvious pain he can take without shedding a tear himself. 

Bucky looks away, shaking his head and smiling self-deprecatingly.  
“Look at me. The old Bucky woulda never run away from a fight like this – or cried like a dame,”  
“Forget about him,” Steve tells him. “I don’t care . . . But you're more like him than you think, you know,” 

Bucky laughs hollowly. “I don’t think so,” He replies.  
“Why not?” Steve asks, frowning.  
“Pretty sure the old Bucky didn’t cuddle you in your sleep,” He points out sarcastically.  
“Yeah, well – there’s a lot of stuff the old Steve never told the old Bucky about – and then it was too late,”  
“Oh yeah? . . . Like what?” 

Bucky looks up and into Steve’s eyes; he licks his lips, and catches Steve watching his tongue, as it moves slowly. It’s a nervous habit, but Steve’s always kinda liked it. Steve shakes his head, but can’t help smiling.  
“I think you already know, jerk,” He says, a reprimanding tone in his voice.  
“You’re a punk,” Bucky tells him, and reaches up to take the hand Steve has on his neck with his left hand. He pulls it away, and pushes Steve back on the bed, taking him by surprise. He hits the mattress with an ‘ _oof_ ’ noise, as the air leaves his lungs. Bucky still doesn’t quite know his own strength – but Steve’s not hurt. 

No, he’s . . . He’s pretty damn far from _hurt_. 

Bucky leans down over him, his left hand still entwined with Steve’s right, as he looks into Steve’s blue eyes. The super soldier looks like a deer in the headlights – and for a moment, Bucky thinks he’s misjudged the situation, _and wouldn’t that be just like him? Ruining the only good thing in his life_ – but then Steve smiles, and it’s sheepish, and he’s blushing, and he knows that’s the go-ahead to kiss him. 

So he kisses Captain America, who’s still wearing the costume from his patrol. He’s got his flesh hand on Steve’s chest, and his metal hand tangled in his fingers, and he’s _kissing Steve goddamn Rogers_. It’s one thing to sleep in the same bed as someone, and be friends, but to kiss them as well – to start to fall for them like this – well, it’s . . . It’s . . . 

“. . . Are you falling asleep, Cap?” Bucky asks sarcastically, noticing that Steve’s eyes have slipped shut.  
“What? . . . No, no – I’m fine,” Steve replies, flustered. He blushes harder than before.  
“Yeah. You’re tired,” Bucky teases him, sitting up on his metal arm, and smirking down at Steve.  
“. . . Okay, yeah, I am tired, but – but I – I still-”  
“Yeah. Me too,” Bucky interrupts him, putting him out of his flailing, awkward misery. Steve was never a wordsmith. Neither of them were, really – but it’s only funny to watch him struggle for words up to a point. After that, Bucky kinda feels sorry for the guy. 

“Better get changed or I’ll tell Tony Stark you sleep in your uniform,” Bucky tells him.  
“You wouldn’t dare,” Steve accuses him, though he’s grinning as he says it.  
“I’ll take pictures,” Bucky threatens, then pauses, looking to one side for a moment before adding, “If I can work my damn phone. Touch screens and metal hands don’t really mix well,”  
“The future’s kinda annoying, isn’t it, old man?” Steve teases him.  
“Shut up, punk,” Bucky replies, though he’s laughing as he says it, leaning down to kiss Steve’s neck for a few seconds, before rolling over to one side and letting him get up. 

From there, he watches the star-spangled man get ready for bed with an expression he knows is probably pretty goofy; not as goofy as the proud little look Steve gets on his face, when he thinks Bucky can’t see him.  
Bucky thinks of how he felt earlier, watching the TV – seeing all those perfect bodies, seeing all those happy people, and thinking that he can never have a slice of that life . . . Well, maybe he can have something better. 

He can have Steve. 

Steve, who helps him with his arm; who trusts him, but respects him enough to let him know that he’ll stop him if he ever loses control; who looks at him like he’s the most precious fucking thing . . . Who blushes and looks stupidly proud every time Bucky smiles at him, or says something nice about him. 

That’s who he goes to bed with, every night; that’s who shuffles up behind him, wrapping his arms around all of him – including the cold metal arm, which warms up under his touch.


	2. Chapter 2

Two nights later, Steve and Bucky step out onto a rooftop Steve has selected as the covert meet-up point prior to their latest raid. The roof is in sight of their target: a warehouse, supposedly for a shipping company, but known to the police as a front for a gun-running operation. 

Steve takes the lead: they can just make out, in the dark, Natasha looking out across the other rooftops to the warehouse with a pair of binoculars. Dressed in all black, as she is, she’s near invisible: the only distinguishable point in the darkness is her hair, which shines a dark red in the moonlight. 

Steve goes to open his mouth to make her aware of their presence, but she speaks first:  
“Hey fellas,” She stands up, placing the binoculars back on her belt.  
“Natasha,” Steve greets her with a smile. She smiles back, before her eyes slide towards Bucky. 

His face is blank, as they size one another up, like they have before: she looks him up and down, and gives a smaller smile.  
“Glad you could make it,” She says.  
“. . . Happy to help,” He says, though he’s still guarded, and wary of her. He instinctively knows that she’s dangerous – but Steve trusts her, and she’s had a hand in saving his life, before now. So he has to trust her.  
"Is Barton not coming?" Steve asks, casting his gaze around. Natasha rolls her eyes.  
“Couldn't get hold of him, as usual . . . We’ll be using these coms devices tonight – just put it in your ear, we’ll have a secure channel,” She says, handing Steve and Bucky their earpieces. She puts a finger up to her ear, and says, “This is Widow. Securing channel,” 

Steve follows suit, saying, “This is Cap – channel secure,” He says, using a codename. They both look to Bucky. He feels like he should follow suit – he realises he’ll need a codename.  
“Winter Soldier. Channel secure,” 

Natasha smirks; Steve looks mildly horrified.  
“Relax, Steve,” Bucky tells him, with a sly smile. “You look like you’re gonna have a heart attack. You need to sit down there, old man?”  
“Jerk,” Steve mutters, shaking his head, and adjusting one of his gloves pointlessly. 

He just . . . Well, Bucky calling himself _Winter Soldier_ , and wearing his old uniform – _it’s the only thing that’s combat ready_ – he’s scared that they’re doing the wrong thing, here. What if this sends Bucky too far in the other direction? What if, rather than helping Bucky get back to who he was before he fell, this is just sending him back to being that mindless assassin, again? 

“Sam, any time you wanna chip in,” Natasha says, looking to the skies. Before Steve and Bucky can register what she said, they both jump, as Sam Wilson suddenly lands right beside Steve.  
“This is Falcon, the line is secure, and I _think_ Captain America just peed himself,” Sam chuckles. "How's _that_ for on your left, Rogers?"

Bucky realises his hand flew to his gun, when he was surprised – he guesses his reflexes haven’t been dulled down, then. He removes the hand, just in time for Sam to realise he’s there. 

“So it’s true – he’s really coming with us,” Sam says, eyeing Bucky with mild suspicion.  
“Sam,” Steve says, his tone even, “It’s a big raid – it’s not safe for the police to go in, with that many firearms in the place. It’s better if we go in – so we can use all the help we can get,” Steve explains to him. Sam maintains eye contact with Bucky throughout; Bucky doesn’t back down, and neither does he. 

But, finally, Sam looks back at Steve, and says, “Don’t sweat it, man . . . If I got the chance to work with Riley again – Hell, I know I’d take it, no matter what,” It’s not exactly forgiveness – not like Natasha has seemingly given Bucky – but it’s acceptance.  
“Thank you,” Steve says, and looks at Bucky expectantly. It takes him a moment to realise Steve wants him to thank them, too. He feels stupid that he didn’t think to, before.  
“. . . Thank you. I know it’s probably not easy working with me,” He says, though the words are stilted. Apologising to someone who isn’t Steve doesn’t come naturally to him. 

“Save it – so, what’s the plan here, Cap?” Sam asks – all four of them get their game-faces on, trying to work as a team, and cooperate, for the sake of the mission.  
“We split off – Sam, it would be best if you provided air support. Since there’s no cavalry here, we need to know if anyone’s trying to escape, and take them out if they do. Remember, we need to catch them – so we’re not cleared for use of maximum force, unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Steve makes clear, eyes moving between Bucky and Natasha.  
“As if I would _ever_ ,” Natasha says in an innocent voice, but her cheeky grin says otherwise. Bucky smirks as he looks at her. But he nods in agreement, all the same, when Steve looks at him – _okay, no killing, gotcha_. 

“Understood,” Sam says, adjusting his wing pack slightly, and waiting for the rest of the plan.  
“The three of us are gonna land on the roof – Natasha, I want you to work on taking out the guards around the back door,”  
“I always work best when I have my own mission, anyway,” She says, raising an eyebrow at Steve – a jibe at him about their mission before the revelations about HYDRA came out. He’d been looking to rescue hostages, and she’d been looking to gather SHIELD intel – but, ultimately, they were on the same side. Steve nods.  
“Me and Bucky are gonna take the front entrance – we’ll let you know if we need assistance. When this is over, we’ll call in the NYPD and medical assistance, and they can take in the hostiles,”  
“Kinda annoying we have to leave them alive,” Bucky mutters. Everyone looks at him – Sam frowns, Steve gapes, and Natasha smiles. “. . . C’mon, I was _joking_ ,” He says, elbowing Steve in the ribs. He shakes his head, and takes out his pistol, checking the clip is full for the fourth time today, before stowing it back in his holster, as a displacement activity. 

“Man, you didn’t tell me he was a pain in the ass,” Sam says to Steve. Bucky scowls at him – but he senses he’s just teasing him for no good reason.  
“Get up in the air. Estimated two minutes til we hit a firefight, Falcon,” He tells Sam.  
“Alright. Good luck,” Sam says, before unceremoniously throwing himself off the building, and up into the night sky: dressed all in black, he’s almost invisible up there, watching from above and ready to take out anyone who thinks they can escape from the warehouse. 

“You done much running across rooftops recently, James?” Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow.  
“Only in Nazi Germany . . . And Cold War Russia . . . And Wall Street, 2008,” Bucky replies sarcastically.  
“Let’s go,” Steve tells them – and like that, they’re off. The jump between the building they’re on and the next one is pretty long, but Steve’s jumped longer – Bucky gets a snapshot of a memory, as he leaps through the air, of him waiting and begging and _praying_ that Steve will make the jump from one walkway to the next, through the explosions and the fire and the unbearable heat from both – 

But then he lands with a grunt, and the memory is gone: he’s back in the cold night air, following Steve into battle like always; Natalia is at his side, landing gracefully, making barely any sound – she’s like smoke, fluid and free, as she moves silently through the night. 

It feels good to work his muscles, again, in pursuit of something: not an assassination, or a kill order, but something _good_. Helping Steve is always what he’s been best at: he’s glad he gets to do it, again, even if he knows the real reason Steve has told the police to stay behind is that he thinks Bucky will probably be arrested, if they see him. 

They jump to a third building, and a fourth: they’re circling around the warehouse, being sure not to be seen, so they can get to the building right next to it, and jump down. Bucky finds he doesn’t have any trouble keeping up: being stealthy and swift is second-nature to him; it’s as much a part of his instinct as looking around, watching out for any snipers that might be trying to kill Steve. 

Steve’s ETA was right: around two minutes later, they’re landing as quietly as possible on the warehouse roof. They pause for a second, listening to whether or not they’ve been detected: they haven’t. Steve points towards the back of the building, and Natasha nods, moving away from them with a whispered ‘ _look out for him_ ’. Steve and Bucky look at each other for a moment – they’re not sure which of them she was speaking to . . . Probably both. 

They make their way towards the front of the building, stopping just short of the edge, and keeping low: Bucky automatically moves into position, crouching slightly and taking the rifle from his back. Steve watches, slightly awed to see Bucky’s process up close – during the war, Bucky was always covering him from afar; recently, he’s been on the receiving end of his skill as a sniper . . . But now, he can just watch. He remains vigilant, of course – but Bucky is hypnotic. He was born – no, _created_ to do this. 

It’s bittersweet, for both of them: for instance, he hates Bucky’s need for a metal arm, while simultaneously finding it very useful for fighting and giving him his independence back. Similarly, Steve hates that Bucky had to have these skills burned into him through war and torture, but loves that he can use them for good, now. 

He wonders, for the millionth time, exactly what goes on in Bucky’s head these days, to reconcile those two opposing opinions . . . Maybe he just tries not to think about it. 

There’s a silencer on the gun: Bucky starts with the watchmen guarding the perimeter of the warehouse, who are out of sight of the ones around the front entrance. They won’t see it when their colleagues drop like flies. 

Steve can hear Bucky’s breathing: he knows the process a sniper goes through – how they have to time their shots with their breathing, and heartbeat – but seeing it up close is amazing. Bucky is mesmerising, to him . . . All that power, all that skill – he feels his cheeks grow hot, and mentally shakes himself, forcing himself to focus on the mission again. 

The first shot goes off without a hitch: Bucky squeezes the trigger, and the first watchman goes down; his leg buckles beneath him. Now, it’s a race against time: they know he probably has a radio, and he’ll call for some sort of backup, before too long. 

But Steve can’t expect the refractory period Bucky shows in his shooting: he’s reloaded and taken out the next watchman before Steve can even process that the first one is definitely down. Then a third – then a fourth, and a fifth – then-

“On the roof! There’s two of em’-” Calls a voice from below.  
“We’ve been made – go!” Bucky commands – and Steve almost expects him to be speaking Russian. 

He nods quickly, taking a quick peak over the edge to judge the fall, and the positions of the hostiles, before ducking back down again to avoid the bullets that are now raining down upon them. He grabs his shield, and holds it in front of him, as he times his jump: he throws himself from the roof, being sure to roll when he lands. He immediately brings his shield up, deflecting bullets from the very first second it’s there protecting him. 

The first few are on him quickly: he shunts one in the face with his shield, and kicks another in the sternum, sending him flying backwards with a yell. He hears a great thud from beside him, and looks up: Bucky’s come down from the roof, the rifle back on his back – and he was sure to land with his boot on a hostile’s shoulder, sending him crumping to the ground, presumably with a broken collarbone _at least_. 

But then there are more men on them: Steve can hear the ricochet of bullets off Bucky’s metal arm, defending him from the crossfire, as he leaps into action. Distracted by the action, he doesn’t see Bucky break bones and blacken eyes; doesn’t see him get up close with hostiles, stabbing them in their shoulders and booting them into walls. Close combat has always been his favourite: even with all his training as a sniper, being directly in the fray is where he feels most comfortable, and most alive. 

That is, being in the fray alongside _Steve_. For him, nothing could be better. 

So when some punk raises his gun, aiming directly for the back of Steve’s head as he fends off three armed hostiles, he barrels into him at full pace: anything to stop him from hurting Steve. 

They fight, for a moment or two: most of these guys are obviously hired hands, with little training other than ‘point and shoot’ – but this guy seems to know how to handle himself. Bucky blocks as many hits as he gets in – until the guy tries to break his metal arm. A grab and a twist that would have broken any normal arm have barely any effect: it leaves Bucky wide open to grab the man’s throat with his left hand, and lift him up off the ground. 

“It’s metal, genius,” He says sarcastically. “Oh, and one more thing-” He tightens his hand around his opponent’s throat, “Never try and kill Captain America again,”  
He throws the man to one side, and into the warehouse wall: he slumps to the ground, unconscious.  
It’s then that he realises the gunfire has stopped: he turns and see Steve come up behind him. He’s smiling.  
“Just like old times, don’t you think, Buck?” He asks, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. Bucky grins at Steve – suddenly, Steve removes his hand from  
Bucky’s shoulder and pushes him out of the way in one fluid movement, before throwing his shield – it hits one of the criminals straight in the face. The man had been sneaking up on them, ready to put a bullet in Bucky’s skull. 

Bucky looks from the hostile to Steve, looking pretty impressed.  
“Damn. There’s always one, I guess,” He says, though he frowns – _how did I miss him? I need to focus. Maybe if Steve would stop being so damn distracting with his stupid attractive face_ -  
“Whatever you say, old man,” Steve teases him.  
“Says you!” Bucky replies, reloading his pistols, as they make their way to the front entrance. One of the unconscious hostiles’ radios starts crackling – something about calling for backup at the back entrance.  
“Guess the widow _does_ always win,” Steve says, recalling what Natasha had told him on one of their poker nights at the Avengers tower. Bucky hadn’t gone with him, that time – but he promised he’d go next time. Steve feels like, after this mission, he’ll feel more comfortable to do so.  
“I’ll say,” Bucky mutters, before saying slightly louder, “You ready?” As they approach the double-doors at the front of the warehouse.  
“Yeah,” Steve replies, “-just like when we used to do those raids on HYDRA factories, during the war,” 

Bucky nods, but doesn’t say anything; his face is blank. Steve gets the feeling he might have just upset his friend – he doesn’t know why, or how . . . Perhaps because it was in one of those places that Bucky was changed forever. He tries to cheer him up –  
“. . . As long as you don’t make that ridiculous duck-face you used to pull whenever we burst into one of those places,”  
“I did _not_ make a duck-face!” Bucky protests.  
“You sure did,”  
“Maybe I was just trying to make you feel better – I mean, you did look pretty ridiculous,” Bucky recalls with a smile.  
“Shut up, jerk,”  
“We gonna do this, or what?”  
“Yeah,” Steve says, focussing once more on the mission. “On the count of three – 1 – 2 – 3-”

They burst in, breaking the doors down with twin kicks, and forcing them down: Steve’s holding his shield up against immediate gunfire, and Bucky’s flying in all guns blazing, aiming for the legs, and leaping into the air like the most dangerous gymnast Steve’s ever seen. While he throws his shield – which ricochets off several of the criminals, knocking them each for six – Bucky’s a blur of motion, jumping and running and kicking; using his arm to throw one criminal into the next, before he’s leaping into the air, firing as he goes. What he does is more like art than combat, Steve thinks – before he has to go back to paying full attention. 

The hostiles guarding the doors are all down, but they can hear others running towards them: the warehouse is split into huge piles of boxes, storing munitions and weapons, splitting the huge floor space into gigantic aisles, undoubtedly hiding more of the criminals responsible for the illegal trade based here. 

“I'm starting to think me fighting alongside you was a bad idea, Cap,” Bucky says.  
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Steve asks, looking all around, eyes seeking out any potential threats.  
“Yeah – you can’t keep your eyes off me. Who knew Captain America was a pervert?”  
“I – I am _not_!” Steve says, blushing.  
“Whatever you say, Cap – let’s split up, cover more ground,” He suggests.  
“Keep in touch over the coms,” Steve instructs him. 

Bucky nods, and heads off down one of the aisles: when he’s out of Steve’s sight, he takes out his pistols – he doesn’t have a whole lot of bullets left, but that’s how he likes it. Using his hands – specifically, his left one – for their intended purpose is thrilling, though he’s loathe to admit it. Natalia was right, about him: everything that’s built up inside him over the past few months – the self-hatred, the helplessness, the fear, and the search for his identity – he can feel the pressure that’s accumulated inside of him lessening by the minute, as he focusses on his task. He’s doing what he’s best at, and he’s doing it for Steve – _all of it, for Steve_.

He can atone. He can seek out that redemption, and Steve thinks he can have it. Sure, he knows who he is now – but it’s going to be a fight, to stay that man, and not to relapse at all. At least he knows, now, that using his skills and fighting alongside Steve will help him be the guy Steve recognises as Bucky, and help him stay that way. 

He comes across his first mercenary within his first minute of searching the warehouse floor – he immediately recognises him as a mercenary, just because of the way he carries himself. His posture, his expression – he differs a lot from those guys outside, who were obviously not that skilled. Bucky grins – _more of a challenge_. 

He fires his pistols at the man’s legs: he dodges out of the way, jumping at Bucky. Bucky takes out his pocketknife as quick as a flash: he grabs the fist that the merc throws at his face, crushing it in his metal hand, and plunging the knife directly into the guy’s wrist; the point comes out the other side. When he screams, he wrenches it out, and throws the guy down on the floor. He hits the back of his head hard, and he’s out – suddenly, Bucky realises that this guy will probably die of blood loss from his wrist, if he doesn’t do something-  
“Winter Soldier to Cap – uh . . . We’re gonna need a medic in here as soon as the area’s secure,”  
“Falcon to Winter Soldier – you shoot someone in the head, yet?” Sam says, sounding unimpressed.  
“Winter Soldier to Falcon – nah, he just – won’t be writing letters to his sweetheart from prison,” Bucky replies sardonically. The next merc comes around the corner – Bucky doesn’t get a response from Steve, but he’s not worried. _Old man’s probably just busy kicking ass, like he always does_. 

The next few mercs don’t see Bucky coming: he takes out their knees easily with his pistols, but unfortunately, their screams attract more of them. _At least it’s less for Steve to deal with_ , he thinks, as they come at him. He leaps out of the way, dodging bullets, and he recalls his gymnastic training for a moment: he was never quite as good as Natalia, but he was damn good . . . He's not sure how he knows that, but he knows it's true. 

He grabs one of the mercs, wrapping his metal arm around his neck, and plunging the knife into his shoulder, drawing a scream from him. Another one is running at him almost instantly though – but suddenly, he jerks, eyes rolling back into his head, and slumping to the floor. 

Behind him stands the Black Widow, her Widow's Bite bracelets glowing blue: he smirks, throwing the merc to the ground as he says,  
“I was just thinking about you,”  
“All good stuff, I hope,” She replies, raising an eyebrow. She looks around, at the various groaning and unconscious criminals, kind of impressed. “You’re as good as I remember,”  
“Thanks,” He says – though he doesn’t really recall what she’s talking about. He gets glimpses of her . . . Different hair, different clothes, different names – but the memories are distant, and tricky to keep any sort of grasp on. It’s frustrating, to say the least. “You run into any trouble out there?”  
“Nothing I can’t handle,” She says, hands on her hips, “Where’s Cap?”  
“He went the other way,” He says, and presses his finger to the coms device in his ear, “Winter Soldier to Cap – you doing alright?”  
“This is Cap – too many - I need backup, now!” Comes Steve's voice, though it's strained and out of breath. 

Bucky and Natasha look at each other, eyes wide. It’s at that moment that more mercs appear from what Bucky presumes is some sort of store-room, whose door is beside them. They move into action seamlessly – it’s an unspoken decision that Bucky should be the one to go after Cap.  
“Go get ‘em, James,” She calls to him, as he sprints off in the direction Steve went. He doesn’t reply, already sprinting as fast as he can, trying to find Steve as quickly as possible. 

He can’t hear any sounds of a struggle – but it’s a huge warehouse. It could take minutes to find Steve. He pushes himself as hard as he can, briefly glancing down each aisle, and cursing when each one comes up empty. A couple of mercs try and accost him, as he goes – but he doesn't even slow down, running into them at full force, metal fist driving into their faces. 

“This is Winter Soldier – Cap, where are you?” 

But Bucky can’t hear anything. He panics, as he runs – he can’t find Steve anywhere - what if he’s running out of time? What if he wasn’t there, to protect Steve? What if someone finished the mission given to him by HYDRA? 

He thinks, as he has before, that if that happened – if Steve was taken away from him – he’d enter a downward spiral of tracking and killing everyone who was even remotely responsible; everyone who ever tried to hurt Steve. Then when no one was left – no one but _him_ – he’d put a bullet in his skull-

He reaches the end of the warehouse, and despairs – he hasn’t found Steve anywhere – _oh God, what if I’m too late_ – until he sees an open door, leading into what appears to be an office. 

Bucky doesn’t know who the boss of this operation is, but he knows that that room probably belongs to him – and if he’s part of the mob, which is likely, then he can probably handle himself. Bucky doesn’t want to just go bursting in, but he has to take the chance. 

He flies into the room, and has precious seconds to analyse the situation: there are unconscious men all over the floor; he can see Steve’s shield embedded in a wall – _not in Steve’s hand_ – and he can see Steve. His knees are buckling, his face is red, and he’s having the life choked out of him with some sort of wire, by some muscle-bound mobster. 

Bucky snaps. 

It’s not like that time, back at that random dive bar: he still doesn’t remember how he went from listening to someone insult Steve to standing amongst a whole bunch of unconscious, bleeding bar patrons – but he knows he lost control. 

This time . . . It’s not a loss of control. He remembers it all, afterwards: it’s just that, during it, he feels unattached. He doesn’t feel accountable for his actions – it’s not like his periods of _relapse_ , where he turns back into the machine that is the Winter Soldier . . . It’s like he’s acting automatically, dispensing justice. 

His pistol is out in half a second, and he’s shooting the mobster in the shoulder on autopilot: the man stumbles back, tripping backwards and landing on the floor. He immediately tries to get up, but Bucky’s on him in a heartbeat. 

He crouches down beside the criminal, using the thumb of his left hand to gouge into the wound – he presses down as hard as he possibly can, baring his teeth and breathing heavily, animalistic in his fury.  
“Don’t – _fuckin'_ – touch – him,” He growls, pressing as hard as he can into the wound with each word, and causing the man to first grunt, then whimper, then _scream_ in pain. 

It’s then that Bucky decides to put him out of his misery. Not stopping squeezing the bullet wound, he raises his right fist, and viciously punches the man in the face, over and over and over – blood spurts from the criminal’s nose and mouth, but Bucky won’t stop – not til he’s knocked out, though he deserves so much worse than that. 

Finally, the man passes out, going limp in Bucky’s grasp: he raises his fist to strike him again, but pauses, chest heaving, as he looks down at the face he’s just ruined – or _improved_ , in his opinion. 

He sets the man down abruptly, and turns back to Steve. He’s scrambling off the floor, staring at Bucky with a look between anxiousness and awe.  
“. . . Bucky?” He asks, tentatively. He’s afraid someone else will answer. Bucky pants for a few seconds more, before standing up, and making his way to Steve.  
“That’s my name,” He tells Steve, with a forced smile. He doesn’t look okay at all, to Steve – but he knows that, in a few minutes, he will be. Better he takes out all that aggression on someone who, in his eyes, deserves it. “Can’t believe you let that guy get the drop on you,” He says, as he helps Steve up. 

He eyes the redness around Steve’s neck: _that wire was damn sharp. Could have taken his head off_. He brushes his metal fingers against the tender skin, after wiping the blood from them – Steve pauses, shivering slightly at the cold touch; his eyes flutter shut for a moment, as the cool sensation soothes him. 

Bucky would like nothing more than to kiss the red welts better – but he has to save that for later, he supposes. The look in Steve’s eyes, when he opens them again, lets him know that Steve knows what he has planned, and wants it just as much – if not more. 

“I had him on the ropes,” Steve says, unconvincingly, with a woozy grin.  
“Whatever you say, old man,” Bucky says, throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders as he teases him with his own words from earlier. Steve rolls his eyes, as they make their way out of the office, taking a moment to catch their breath. 

“Widow to all units. The majority of hostiles are down – a few of them made for the front exit,” Natasha tells them over the coms system.  
“Falcon to Widow. I’m on it,” Sam assures them. 

Steve and Bucky look at each other for a moment, before breaking into a run for the front exit. 

By the time they get out there, there are no hostiles to be found – that is, until a couple of them fall from the sky, landing in a heap on top of some of the guys Steve and Bucky knocked out earlier. Sam lands momentarily, wiping his hands on one another, and looking rather pleased with himself.  
“And _stay_ down,” He says triumphantly, with a smile at Steve. His smile falters, however, when he sees Steve’s bruised neck. “Hey, man – are you alright?” He asks, his eyes flicking to Bucky for a moment. Bucky takes a few seconds to calm himself down, when the thought occurs to him that maybe, just maybe, Sam thought _he_ did this to Steve. 

“Yeah, just – got into a bit of trouble with the mob,” Steve says, waving it away, and looking at Bucky, “Bucky took care of it,” 

Sam’s eyes are drawn to Bucky again; this time, less judgemental, and more thoughtful.  
“Huh,” He says, not having considered that.  
“You guys just gonna stand around all night?” 

Natasha appears beside them – and damn, she never fails to impress Bucky, moving silently enough to creep up on _him_ , of all people. He recalls how she tricked him before, too - the trick with the recording of her voice.  
“No – we need to go, now. Police will be here as soon as I let them know we’re done here, and Bucky needs to be gone by then,”  
“Guess you guys are going, then?” Sam asks, looking between them.  
“Sorry, Sam – I’m sure you two can handle things from here, though,” Steve apologises.  
“It’s cool, Cap – see you soon,” He says, shaking Steve’s hand. Then, he turns to Bucky, and holds out a hand. Bucky looks at it for a moment, then up to Sam’s face – he looks respectful. More so than before. 

“You’re good – I’ll give you that,” Sam says, as Bucky shakes his hand. “Even from the sky, I could tell that – and thanks for looking after this guy,” He adds, indicating Steve. Steve just smiles.  
“That’s okay. Thanks for your help – both of you,” Bucky says, looking between Sam and Natasha, and making the effort to smile. The gratitude comes easier than before. 

“Any time. Now get out of here, Winter Soldier,” Natasha says, making a shooing gesture at him. 

Bucky and Steve slip away, sticking to alleyways and poorly-lit areas, as they make their way home; Steve calls the cops, and lets them know that the mission has been a success. 

He doesn’t expect it when Bucky takes his hand, as they walk: he feels Bucky’s flesh fingers curl around his left hand, and looks up at him; he doesn’t look at Steve’s face, perhaps too embarrassed to acknowledge what’s happening; how much he needs to feel Steve is there, and okay, and _alive_ , after what happened earlier. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” Bucky tells him.  
“What?” Steve asks.  
“Get into trouble like that – you’re not really the damsel in distress type - well, not anymore, anyway,” Bucky tells him. Steve chuckles.  
“What we do is dangerous, Buck – and I can’t always be the one saving you. You gotta do the same thing for me, sometimes,” He points out.  
“You never _saved_ me,” Bucky denies. 

Steve doesn’t say anything, but deep down, they both know that’s not quite true – Steve did save him, in a way. Steve accepted him, and helped him come back to life – helped him find out who he was, who he wanted to be, who he _wanted_ – he helped revive Bucky, and thaw him out, once and for all. 

Steve did save Bucky. But Bucky saved Steve, too – in the end, they’ll always save each other. And nothing – not the war, not seven decades apart, not HYDRA, or post-traumatic stress – can put a stop to that. 

It’s a pretty clichéd love story, Bucky thinks, as they hold hands and walk home under the stars that the polluted New York City sky will show them. He didn’t used to believe in that kind of enduring love, or whatever – for the longest time, he didn’t even know what love _was_ – so he wasn’t expecting this. 

But, in the end, it had been there all along - _Steve_ had been there all along. And so had he: he’d just been hidden under all the conditioning, and the torture, and the violence, and the killing . . . It had just taken Steve to pull him out from all that shit, and dust him down, and help him feel human again. 

Steve helped him be the Bucky who was always proud to call Steve his friend; he helped the Bucky who always secretly knew that he loved Steve to show that love, in both big and small ways. Sure, he sometimes shows it by damn-near killing someone who dares to hurt Steve – but other times he shows it by kissing his scars, and his bruises, and allowing Steve to do the same for him. 

He doesn’t know if the old Bucky always loved Steve like this – but he doesn’t care. He’s his own man, now: he’ll take it from here, cause he wants to be with Steve Rogers til the end of the line.


End file.
